I Love You
by alixxblack
Summary: There are lots of reasons why one person says "I love you" to another, and this is just a collection of stories exploring those aspects of love and life. (TWs ahead of Chapter 8) / Characters, in order, include: A. Black, R. Black, Zabini, Hannah A., McGonagall, Snape, James Potter, Lily, Ginny, Harry, Rose W., Tonks, Lupin, George W., Luna L., Rolf S., Newt S., Neville L.
1. April 13, 1979

**House:** Ravenclaw

 **Year:** 3rd Year

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt(s):** [Date] April 13

 **W/C:** 1969 (Word) / 1,969 (Google)

 **Notes:** This could be canon compliant, I tried to make it fit timelines roughly, but I know that it's still in that AU territory too.

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 **Read & Enjoy**

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I'm staring at the calendar: April 13, 1979. This means that we have to move again today. Every month or so we move on the third, thirteenth, or twenty-third, it keeps a rhythm for us but allows for enough variety to comfortably maintain our cover. We've been traveling all over Europe to remain hidden from Voldemort and his Death Eaters during this blood status war that they've created. Before, that wouldn't have been an issue for me. Before, I would've been considered pure. Before, I would've been safe.

But this isn't _before_ anymore.

This is after - after Edward, after Nymphadora.

This is after _Voldemort_.

While other people are enjoying the streaking rays of sunshine, the warmth in the breeze, and the scent of flowers sprouting out of the ground, we're hiding away in abandoned homes in the basements or attics. My family has to stay tucked away from sight just to be sure that we'll survive. My husband says that it reminds of something called the Holocaust, but he never tells me how exactly. Honestly, I'm not sure I want to know either.

Ted is the man of my dreams, and I do mean _dreams_ , because I have loved him before I ever knew it would be _him_ exactly. I grew up knowing that I would be married off to some pureblood man with a reputation that would've made my parents bow in his presence. When I was old enough to understand love, I dreamt of being with the kind of man who would make me laugh, who would lift me up, and who make me excited for our future. My parents never would've picked that kind of man for me. Ted is everything I hoped for and so much more.

As for Dora, she is an absolute gift. When she was born five years ago, I hadn't even realized my life was incomplete. Ted and I were very happy, just the two of us, and we were enjoying everything around us. Then I found out I was pregnant and, somehow, things got inexplicably better. Everything felt more complete with three.

Unfortunately, the Wizarding world got much darker, and two years ago we decided to go into hiding. Muggle-borns, and the folks who married them, they were being hunted and killed. I don't fear them, but I won't have Dora lose her parents for something as petty as blood status. And I most certainly won't see her taken from me either. This is what's best for us.

I sigh. April _thirteenth_.

When Ted wakes up, we'll need to get as much done as possible before Dora wakes up. As soon as she's up and fed, we'll be apparating somewhere else. I've been trying to convince Ted that we should go overseas, but he can't bear the idea of leaving Europe. Unlike me, he still has his family. His family is here. If they died, he'd never know.

On our calendar, we crossed off days in such a way to signify if anyone we know has been found dead, or if there's been an attack somewhere on people we know. I can't believe Voldemort's managed to gain so much power. Over so many people… People that I loved… People that loved me once…

"Annie." I hear, swearing it's just a trick of the wind or my imagination. Surely that is the case, since Ted calls me _'Dromeda_ and Dora just calls me _mum_. It _has_ to be my imagination.

But I hear it again.

"Annie," the masculine voice is clearer this time and it causes me to draw my wand. There are only two men who call me by that name, and neither of them should know where I'm at or even how to find me. Ready to defend my family and myself, at the cost of my life, I lean carefully towards the only entry into this rundown townhouse basement.

"Annie," he repeats a third time. "It's me. I promise I'm here to help!"

Baring my teeth, I can't believe my cousin has even dared to show his face. I've heard the news, despite being on the run. Maybe becoming a Death Eater, a follower of Voldemort, maybe that was good in the eyes of _his parents_ , but it made him an enemy _to her_. Death Eaters would see her husband and her daughter dead before seeing them as equals. "Go away, Reggie," I spit.

"Sirius thinks you're _dead_ ," he says lowly, the tone of the little boy she used to play with at family reunions returning to him. Fond memories threaten her defenses. She almost lets her guard down. Only almost, though.

I point my wand towards him as he descends the staircase, a look of ferocity, I hope, greeting him once he's in full view. "How did you even find us? And what's that got to do with you coming here?"

Regulus pauses, considering his words carefully, I suspect, but settles on a simple answer after only a minute or two. "There's a priority on blood traitors. You can imagine the embarrassment."

I can. My parents disowned me the second they heard of my relationship with Ted. I was fine to be kicked out of their home and blow off their family tree. If they could not accept where I put my heart, then they were just as well not accepting me either. As for Voldemort, though, their loyalty is tainted by my divergence. My marriage is betrayal on its own, and my daughter is treacherous. Embarrassed? That probably doesn't even begin to scratch the surface. "What about Sirius then? He's in hiding last I knew."

"Two years is a long time," Regulus huffs, but it borders on a laugh as well. "And he's far less careful than you."

For a split second, I worry that he's dead. What a rubbish thought, though, since Regulus has already said that he's worried about me. He's alive. Every bit the chaotic mess of a boy I watched grow up, but he is alive just the same. My chest rises, falls, rises, falls.

"We may be different, but he is still my brother," Regulus says, whipping some of his loose hair to the side. He's untidy, which is uncommon. I've always known Sirius to be the haphazard one. Everything that the Black family stands for, Sirius desperately tries to be the opposite of in every single way.

I am struggling with what to do about my cousin. _I_ think he should be hexed without a trace to find us, move to the next location and make it further away than we've ever gone. _Ted_ would say I should hear him out. In his eyes, our families will be awful and horrible and everything that makes us angry, but they can be incredible and amazing too.

And I think of my little Dora, lying curled up in a ball on her rollaway cot. If I'm wrong…

"Why should I trust you?" Harshness spreads past my tone and into my body language. Muscles tighten, my teeth are grinding. There is a war to consider, consequences to be wary of, and no matter how much I want this Regulus to be the one that I played with in the gardens when he was a little boy - I can't give into that idea of him without proof.

Regulus reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a yellowish locket on a gold chain. He holds it off to the side and I watch his eyes follow it. "This - is very powerful and very dark magic. If I'm right about what I think it is, destroying it could be the first step in stopping Voldemort's rise to power."

"Nobody uses that kind of magic anymore, not for centuries," I say, half rolling my eyes and half wondering if he's telling the truth. This could be a ruse. Such a thing would not beyond Regulus, as he was quite the performer as a young man.

Offering no further explanation or details, Regulus tucks the locket back inside of his jacket. Features contorting into something that tries to be relaxation, Regulus looks more like he's in pain. I'm still nervous about his presence, still unsure, but I let my guard down just a little. Lowering my wand, I start questioning him about he found us, _correspondence patterns;_ how Sirius is doing, _well_ ; why has he come, _to help._

But my mind cycles back to this locket. Why would he want me to see it?

"I love you, you know," Regulus mutters, cutting through my internal caution. I see him in front of me, forlorn and tired, and it hurts me. "You – Sirius – I wish I could've been more like the both of you."

Fear flickers in Regulus' eyes, but I don't know why exactly, but I'm sure that he is scared of the consequences that await him. Whatever this locket is, whatever his reason for coming to find us, there _is_ a reason in it for him. There has always been a purpose in his actions, unlike what I've ever known in others. "How do you plan to help us?"

"Today?" He asks, distracted by the ground. I stare hard at his feet, too, unsure what he's seeing down there.

"Yes," I mutter. "Yes, today."

"I'll say when Ted comes out," he replies quickly. "It's a surprise."

A mother now, I scan his body to see if he is hurt or if there is something odd about him. Perhaps too late, I consider this could be someone using Polyjuice. Everything appears to be spot on, and it makes me doubt that this is mimicry of any sort. As I look at him, my eyes stop at his chest where he's put the locket away. "Are you going to destroy the locket it?

Regulus looks almost as if he's forgotten about it somehow. It scares me in a way that I cannot explain. "Yes."

Something doesn't fit and I cannot put my finger on it. As time passes, I'm more convinced that Regulus is no threat, but I'm more confused than I was when he arrived. I'm aching to ask difficult questions that I can't believe he'll answer, but I figure I should settle on the most important one.

"What will happen when you destroy whatever that is, then?"

Exactly as I'm expecting - Regulus doesn't answer.

As silence lingers between us, my wanting more information that he refuses to share, and his wanting to keep his secrets, Ted emerges from the hallway behind me. Dora is holding his hand. She eagerly asks who the man is that is visiting us. Mum's wand wasn't raised, in her eyes, so he must be a friend. I find that I don't want Dora to think of him as dangerous, and so I introduce him carefully.

"He looks tired," Dora says loudly. "Would you like a nap in my bed while we pack?" Regulus laughs at her but shakes his head politely. I notice that the amusement doesn't quite reach his eyes.

I think I know what's going to happen when Regulus destroys the locket, plain as it might appear.

"I've made permanent arrangements for you," he announces. Ted inquires in great detail about why and how and where, questions that I would be asking if I weren't mourning the loss of my cousin. Though he's alive, telling me that he's secured a home for me to share with my husband and daughter, it is clear to me that he is little more than a dead man walking. Nobody defies Voldemort and lives.

As far as I'm concerned, no matter when Regulus Black dies, no matter how long it takes – I mark his death on my calendar while everyone scatters to pack.

 _April 13, 1979_

 _R.B. Deceased (18)_

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 **Acknowledgements:**

Shout out to my BETA readers: TheCrownprincessBride and nottheonlyfangirl.


	2. Fxxk October 15th

**House:** Ravenclaw

 **Year:** 3rd Year

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt(s):** [Date] October 15, [Pairing] Slytherin/Hufflepuff

 **W/C:** 494 (Google) / 493 (Word)

 **Notes:** Let's just call this AU and be on our merry ways. Also, there are two F-bombs.

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 **Read & Enjoy**

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I didn't mean to fall in love with her.

Today's edition of the _Daily Prophet_ has a wedding announcement for Hannah Abbott and Neville Longbottom. Married on October 15, 2001 - Hannah's birthday. I suppose she needed something to help her forget. _Damn,_ I think, _wish I could forget._

We snogged for several hours after our Yule Ball dates ditched us. My date went off to dance with some Durmstrang boy. Hannah's friend started to come onto her date, and it ended as badly as one might expect. She looked beautiful despite being angry, and I told her as much. That was the beginning of our unusual relationship.

For the next two years, Hannah and I had our stolen moments. We did homework, ate our favorite treats, and gossiped about people we didn't like at school. She complained about how she was regarded as important by purists for her blood status, and I complained about people who should be my friends.

We were the same in our respective ways. I just wanted to make it through my years at Hogwarts without making enemies of powerful people, and Hannah wanted to fit in at all costs. Neither of us tried to make waves. We just wanted to be ordinary.

When our seventh year came, and I was stealing as many of those moments as I could with her. A kiss in the shadows, a handwritten note of my affection, and gifts whenever some meaningless holiday passed; I realized that I wanted to be her proper boyfriend somewhere in between it all.

On her birthday, October 15, 1997, we met by the Black Lake to get away. I had taken along some hot cocoa while we enjoyed some time away from the ever prying eyes of the Carrows. I found her silence warm, as if we only needed to be together to escape the darkness plaguing the world. The cool breeze rolling off of the lake, the crunching leaves beneath our feet, and the joy of being next to her… I had to let her know how I felt.

Hannah Abbott was my light, my everything. I blurted suddenly, _"I love you."_

Hannah tried to smile but shook her head before it formed. _"I'm sorry, Blaise"_ she said. I quit listening, though, because I knew what lame excuse would follow those two words. Many of my Slytherin comrades dumped girls with this pathetic, dishonest method. I had decided long ago that it was the most cowardly way to end a relationship.

And Hannah only cemented this in my mind.

I glance at my pristine copy of the _Daily Prophet,_ hovering in front of me to display the announcement. Angrily, I sit my cup down on the table, swipe the paper from the air, and walk briskly to the fireplace. Fuck October fifteenth – 1997, 2001, 2005 – fuck them all.

"I need a drink," I grumble before ripping up the newspaper and tossing it into the flames.

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 **Acknowledgements:**

Shout out to my BETA readers: TheCrownprincessBride and nottheonlyfangirl.


	3. Lavender Brown's Fanfiction

**House:** Ravenclaw

 **Year:** 6th Year (Standing in for ACoolerUsername)

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt:** McGonagall/Snape pairing

 **W/C:** 1,042 (Google), 1,037 (Word)

 **Notes:** AU notice – you've been notified ;) Also? META? Notice? I don't even know if that's the right kind of not to put at the beginning here but - just be super warned that crazy things are about to happen.

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 **Read & Enjoy**

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 _Professor McGonagall swayed her hips as she approached the Potions Master, a twinkle in her eyes. The room smelled of dried roots and freshly cleaned cauldrons. Merlin's beard, it was intoxicating. She did the only thing she could do when in his presence. McGonagall turned cold. "Professor, could I borrow you for a moment?"_

" _Absolutely," he said with a forced frown. The Potions Master knew why she was there. She had missed him dearly, though they'd spent all morning together in the Great Hall sharing a copy of the Daily Prophet for their routine news consumption. Everyone knew they were a couple, no matter how much they denied it. "Shall we?"_

" _It'll be just a moment," she declared confidently in front of the students._

 _Professor Snape gestured towards his office, indicating that he, too, desired privacy from their student's prying eyes. Scattered giggles spread across the room. Both teachers turned, glaring at the students for their behavior. Once everyone faked being occupied, the pair turned back around and went on their way. And when they did, all eyes shifted back towards them._

 _Once through the door, she couldn't keep her hands off of him. Professor Snape melted under the pressure of her hands cupping his cheeks before they met in an urgent embrace. Opposite in nearly every way, they found over time that their differences made them fit together perfectly. There was balance in their unexpected romance._

 _Even with their love being so obvious to others, discretion was key. McGonagall demanded it from him, and he craved her affection far too much to consider rejecting her need for discretion. After all, she was the Deputy Headmistress. Dumbledore was a walking, talking scandal on his own – no need for his beloved to draw in more attention._

" _I want you," she breathed into his mouth, unaware that the door hadn't latched and that everyone could hear her._

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"This is a load of rubbish," Minerva said, tossing the crumpled piece of parchment into the fireplace. Severus had brought it to her in her private study after finding it on the floor in his classroom. A good many things came out of the minds of children, most of which was vulgar fantasy, but it didn't make this any less unnerving. Minerva McGonagall? Having a love affair with Severus Snape? Not only was she his superior, but she was comfortably his senior in age as well. Perhaps she was old-fashioned, but she thought the age difference was far too much to overcome.

Also, there was the whole matter with Severus having been a Death Eater in the past.

Severus shrugged his shoulders and dropped into a chair across from her in a slump. It wasn't often that they found writing from a student that was anything like this, and when it was – it was usually more along the lines of students writing themselves into mature relationships with older students. This was brand new territory. "Who do you think wrote it?"

"I found it after class was dismissed," Severus starts, almost humming. "However, I did find it beneath the assigned seat of one of _your_ students."

Minerva laughed at the comment, though her features shifted from 'appalled' to 'amused' very rapidly. It was almost as if she was less surprised to hear this than to know that the note even existed. She confirmed with a quiet huff.

"Care to guess which one?" The inquiry came with a cheery tone, which was unusual for Severus, but not unfamiliar to McGonagall. They had been working together for many years, now, and it was more like they were family than anything else. She didn't care for all of his choices from the past, and not even the choices of his present, but Minerva could still appreciate him.

"Miss Brown," she grinned, "I assume?"

"Correct, as always," he confirmed.

Minerva nodded. "She has quite the imagination. Now that I think about it, she's been caught writing strange stories like this before – only about the Grey Lady and the Bloody Baron, I think."

Severus couldn't hide his smile. Had Lavender Brown really done that? He almost wanted proof of it before he realized it would've been burned too. "She has quite the imagination."

That much was true, but what was more disconcerting to McGonagall was what these sorts of stories told. People who should hate each other falling in love; ethereal entities finding romance in the afterlife… Was Lavender trying to paint a picture of something specific? If so, then what?

Minerva second-guessed her decision to burn the piece of parchment that Severus had presented to her not even ten minutes ago. Perhaps it made no difference whether she had the written copies. She knew about the content of both stories. It would not be easily erased from her memory.

"I love you. I do, but it is because I love _everyone_ here," her flat voice made the declaration sound melancholy. Of course, it wasn't – and it wasn't exactly surprising either. " Miss Brown has mistaken my affection. Hogwarts is my home. Even when I want to rip my hair out because of cheated homework assignments and failing marks, I love my life here."

"Even a misguided soul such as mine?" he muttered, not sure if she really meant 'everyone' had her love. Nobody _really_ loved Severus and he knew it too well. After all, the one woman he _had_ wanted to love him chose his arch nemesis instead of him – him, her best friend!

"Well, there were times I could've done without your meddling. Do you remember thieving those books from my personal library? Or when you would write strongly worded complaints about how I favored Gryffindors in my classroom?" Minerva smiled at him, a maternal glint in her eyes as she met his gaze directly. It left no doubt about her sincerity. "But sometimes, yes, even a misguided soul like you."

Severus nods his head at her. "I was right, you know."

"You always were," Minerva said as she waved her hand at the door. He has overstayed his welcome, clearly, but their visits didn't need to be particularly long. "Now, go play your own game of favorites before I write a complaint letter to _you,_ Severus."

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 **Acknowledgements:**

Major thanks to the wonderful BETA reads I got from these gals on such a short notice: Celestia0909 and TheCrownprincessBride.


	4. A Public Menace

**House:** Ravenclaw

 **Year:** 6th Year (Standing in for ACoolerUsername)

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** An Important Announcement

 **W/C:** 470 (Google), 469 (Word)

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The Great Hall was always loud and full of nonsense early in the term when the weight of responsibility hadn't crushed the joy from the students' smiling faces. Lily always found those weeks annoying. That's why she sat at the far end of the table near the professors; it was somewhat quieter with fewer students nearby to make conversation.

She hated to think about it, yet she couldn't help but relish in the fact that she only had two years left at Hogwarts. It made her smile. In two years, she could get on with her life and surround herself with _likeminded_ people.

People who were distinctly not…

"Hear, hear!" Lily frowned at the obnoxiously loud voice of James Potter erupting somewhere further down the table. She refused to look at him. He didn't deserve the attention. "Listen up! I have an important announcement to make!"

James Potter _always_ had an 'important" announcement to make. Wherever he went it was the 'James' show. Even when Remus, Sirius, and Peter were in tow, all eyes were on _him._ That's why Lily refused to give in to it. He didn't _deserve_ to have all eyes on him. James was little more than a bully and a fool on a good day, as far as she'd been concerned.

"Hey, Evans, you'll want to hear this!" Loyal to a fault, Sirius always insisted that Lily be looking at James whenever he decided to make a performance out of something.

"No, I really think I'd rather not," Lily said tiredly. Showing any emotion or irritation only seemed to encourage James even further. The less he did to get her attention, the better her day went.

As it tended to be with James, he just jumped onto the table and continued calling for everyone's attention. The whole thing was a spectacle and, eventually, Lily was forced to her feet to confront his immature behavior. "James Potter, stop this at once! You are disrupting the whole student body with your antics!'

"If I could just make this announcement," he said, looking down at her from atop the table, where he still stood because, well, _he's James._ Everything had to be dramatic.

"Bloody hell," Lily said, hiding the defeat she felt. "What's your announcement then?"

She should've expected he'd do something ridiculous, which he did – by sitting on top of her parchment and crossing his legs so that she couldn't grab her bag or quills either. "I love you, Lily Evans."

"Of course you do, James," she sighed, unamused by his sudden declaration of love. He couldn't love anyone but himself if he tried. However, if that's what he was going to be on about, then she might as well use it against him. "And I'd love you back if you'd stop being such a public menace."

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 **Acknowledgements:**

Again, massive thanks to these last minute BETA readers who are just absolutely fabulous: Celestia0909, TheCrownprincessBride, and 2DaughtersofAthena.


	5. Our Stolen Glances

**House:** Ravenclaw

 **Year:** 6th Year (Standing in for ACoolerUsername)

 **Category:** Themed (Ravenclaw, the color blue)

 **Prompt(s):** December 24th, Glance

 **W/C:** 3,341 (Google), 3,340 (Word)

 **Notes:** Could be canon compliant, but could also be au to some readers.

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 **Read & Enjoy**

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 _Glance._

Did he see me looking at him?

 _Glance._

He definitely saw me that time.

 _Glance._

I've got to stop looking at him. Bloody hell, I've got to stop.

"Ginny?" Hermione asks and it jars me out of my crazy brain. My crush on Harry Potter doesn't hold me back in any way. I've dated other boys who are not Harry Potter. But the fact that I refer to them as "not Harry Potter," well…

 _Glance._

It's not healthy to refer to them as "not Harry Potter" boys, is it?

"Ginny!" Hermione says more harshly this time. "Are you even listening?"

Instead of trying to sneak another peak at Harry sitting on the floor playing chess with Ron, I hang my head low and avert my eyes. I shouldn't care about him so much when I've never had any reason to believe that he shares my affection. He's nice to me. But Harry is nice to everyone, so what does that _really_ mean in the grand scheme of things?

"No," I admit to her. "I was distracted." Distracted by a handsome boy with a lightning bolt scar, trouble following him at every turn, and an oversized blue plaid shirt.

Hermione doesn't get this way about Ron, at least not as badly as far as I can tell. I know she has a crush on him because she watches after him with glossy eyes when she thinks nobody can see her. It's cute. I think they'd be great together if they could ever stop bickering.

"Should we go elsewhere, then?" Hermione proposes, shortness in her voice and a thick breath of irritation. I know we ought to, so I agree to go upstairs. Though, I let her go ahead of me. When she gets to the landing, I can get a good look at him one more time...

 _One – last – glance._

Merlin's beard, what's wrong with me?

* * *

I don't know why, but, when I was little, I wanted everything done in blue. Blue curtains, blue rugs, blue banners. Honestly, I think I secretly went through a period of time where I wanted to be a Ravenclaw. Thought it would set me apart from my brothers, I suppose, though I know I've always been a Gryffindor at heart.

Now, someone who should've been a Ravenclaw is Hermione Granger. She's talking about something she's read in this book she's borrowing from the library. It's about spellcasting and creating new spells. She finds it thoroughly fascinating. Normally I would've been intrigued, but it's the holidays.

And my mind is still on the boy hiding his blue plaid shirt.

"Maybe I should create a spell that gets your mind off of him," I hear her saying, though I don't fully register it. I'm looking all around my room, thinking about what it would be like if Harry Potter sat on my bed – talking to me about, well, decidedly _not_ spellcasting. "Ginny?"

"Sorry," I scoff, at myself rather than at her. "I'm not even trying, am I?"

Hermione laughs, and she's just so sweet. I've heard the things people say about her, that she's a tired old hag with the worst hair a girl could ask for, but I find her to be perfectly lovely. So what if her hair frizzes in every direction, and if her brown eyes sink into her face a little after studying all night for a test. Nobody has half the work ethic she does, nor are they half as brilliant. I couldn't ask for a better friend.

"When do you plan on telling him how you feel, exactly?" Hermione asks, her teeth poking out past her lips. The problem is, I think, that in her head – a lot of these things sound be easy. I want to ask her when _she_ plans on telling Ron how _she_ feels about _him_ , but I know that's not kind. It's a low blow and I am not that kind of friend.

I shrug in response. When the silence lingers, I figure I should put words to it for her. "He's the only person who has seen me when I'm weak. I'm afraid I'm just his best friend's _weak,_ little sister. The girl he had to save from the Chamber of Secrets."

"Oh, Ginny," she hums, as if this is somehow an invalid thing to believe. It is. She's right. Still, a small part of me believes in it so fervently that I can't _not_ consider the possibility. "That's been three years ago! Harry couldn't care less about what you were like when you were eleven."

Three years. The difference between eleven and fourteen. Supposedly. So why doesn't it feel that different to me? I can tell the physical difference in my appearance. I'm more educated and stronger. But am I really changed? I still love quidditch and practical jokes; I still love the color blue and the boy band Snitches; and I'm still crushing hard on Harry Potter.

I glance at my door. The idea of him walking into my room feels so impossible that I sigh in defeat. He'll never walk through the door, his green eyes and his blue shirt, his lightning bolt scar. "Are you excited for tomorrow?"

"December twenty-fourth? The second most fun day of the year? Are you really asking me that?" Hermione teases, my already knowing that Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are her favorite holidays of the year. Usually she'd be spending the day with her own family, but the dangers are too high this year. Fortunately, she's been more than happy to share in our family festivities. And, honestly, I'm so glad she's here.

I grin ear-to-ear at her. "Do you want to get the fun started right now?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. She knows what I'm going to suggest, I'm sure of it, but she's not going to stop me. "Sure. What do you have in mind?"

"I'm thinking fireworks in the twins' bathroom upstairs. Mum would love to see them tricked for a change, and I know she needs the laugh," I suggest, part of my spirits lifting just at the idea of it. Luckily, Hermione readily agrees, so long as she can see to the safety precautions. Nobody else needs to get hurt, after all. I nod curtly at her before we get up and get to work.

* * *

Today is December twenty-fourth. It's finally Christmas Eve! Since we've never had the money for everyone to have tons of presents, we don't ever open a present early. Instead, we play games and share our favorite stories from the past year. It's all about family.

And this year – Harry is spending Christmas _with_ us.

Everything has to be perfect: the Living Room Quidditch match, the game of telephone (I've already harassed Fred and George to play it the right way), and our afternoon Christmas carols. I've put on my favorite dress, blue coincidentally enough, and my hair is brushed neatly down my back – Hermione helped. "Good morning!"

I whip around to find Fred and George standing in my doorway. I almost forgot that about my prank. They must not have used their bathroom last night. "Morning," I say, turning to let my hair hide my grin.

"Our sister, you are," Fred says with a laugh.

"Indeed," George follows, his voice somewhat louder. When I turn to look at them again, sure I can keep my lips in a straight line now, I see that George is the closer one. I'm honestly not any better at telling them apart than mum.

I point at them. "I think I've made my point?"

They amble into my bedroom, dressed in green and purple and gold, ever the attention seekers. "You are certainly a worthy opponent, we'll give you that."

"So no trouble today?" I say with air of amusement dancing on my tongue. They've never really get me because we've been at this for years. I've learned some of my best tricks from them. And I've had the chance to make them better. They each give me a thumbs up to show that they agree to be on their best behavior. "Thank you."

"No, _thank you_ ," they croon together, eyebrows arching and teeth showing behind curled lips. Usually this is a terrible sign, but I'm not worried. I'm closer to the twins than the others are and we have this quiet respect between us three. Without my saying, they know why today is so important to me.

Just as quickly as they've come, they're gone again.

It's just as well. I've got a perfect Christmas Eve waiting for me downstairs.

 _Christmas Eve and Harry Potter._

* * *

"Come on, I want to be on the blue team!" Ron says, whining that Harry's been picked before him. He is also making a fuss about being on the same team as his best friend. But it's not _just_ him. I haven't been picked yet either. Everyone who has played quidditch at school gets picked first. This isn't new information. I can't believe he's making a scene about it.

His immaturity opens a window of opportunity for me, though, and I climb right through.

"Shut up," I groan; playing it cool so I'll be on Harry's team. "You sound desperate."

It's a funny sort of twist considering I'm also desperate to be on Harry's team. I'm just not acting like it. I don't even sound it what with my insulting Ron and pretending I couldn't care less.

But I could.

I could care less.

But I won't.

"I'm picking Ginny. You can't rely on him forever," Bill says as he covers his face with his hand. Percy throws his hands up in reaction to Bill's choice, complaining about Ron's complaining, and I just wander up to Harry to take the last blue bandana. I hope my smile isn't too big.

Rolling my eyes, I apologize for how terribly this is already going. "Big families are a pain," I say.

"I think it's great, actually."

"Do you really?" I ask, unsure if he's being serious or not. That's the thing about my crush on him, it can only be that – a crush. I don't know anything about him except what I see in my stolen glances.

"Absolutely!" He smiles, which makes me smile. I have to drop my eyes to hide the blush that I think might be forming on my cheeks. "I am so excited to spend Christmas with your family. It feels like I finally belong somewhere."

Biting my lip, part of me hurts in a way I've never felt before – in a way that is brand new and totally unwanted. Despite being the only girl in a sea of boys, I've never felt separate from my brothers. I wanted to stand out and be different, but I'm as 'Weasley' as they come. I am an actual hodge podge of everyone else in my family.

The idea of Harry not fitting in aches, and my heart feels like it's being strangled. "You'll always belong here, Harry. You're basically part of our family now."

I offer a grin as I finally begin tying the bandana around my neck like a scarf. Harry reaches up and straightens it unexpectedly. In order to catch my breath, I have to keep talking to hide that his proximity has me flustered. "You saved our dad, after all. Harry Potter, honorary Weasley!"

"Thanks, Ginny," he says, glancing around the room at the madness. Everyone is shaking their hands and telling Ron what-for about his attitude. Harry wanders into the crowd to calm his best friend down while Hermione returns to my side, her red bandana tied into a bow around her ponytail. I've never seen her look so excited to do sport. I think being picked ahead of Ron and I gave her a confidence boost. I'm glad for her.

We watch from afar, debating how long it'll be until everyone decides to settle it with a match of Living Room Quidditch - like we're supposed to be doing. "They've made me a keeper. Either they're very confident in my skills or don't trust me to actually do anything else."

"I reckon you could be a decent beater. Surely Ron pisses you off enough to channel it into the game," I remark, really believing she could repurpose that frustration on the pitch. Hermione giggles before giving me a push, saying that she'd rather leave the sports to me. Honestly, I don't even know if I'm that good. I've only ever played at home with my brothers. All of them have played, and if I can keep up with them, I guess I could be a decent player.

Suddenly, Harry wanders over with a red-faced Ron, his hair blending in with his skin now. Harry sighs. "Will you trade with him?"

My heart sinks and, all at once, I feel bluer than my dress. I don't want to stand against Harry Potter. I want to stand _with_ him.

"Fine," I say with a flat tone, reaching to take my scarf off when Fred and George jump up behind Ron. They charm our bandanas to be different colors and then shuffle the two boys away to _their_ team. Hermione grabs my hand and pulls me towards our bins that are meant to be goals.

The keepers have three bins and one lid, and they are allowed to move the bin lid around or use it as a shield to prevent goals from the opposing team. The chasers, then, have to deposit tin foil balls that are thrown onto the "pitch" after a goal is scored. Nobody knows where the makeshift quaffles will come from, so the chasers have to be very vigilant.

As for the beaters, they are responsible for shuffling their 'bludgers' around the room and pushing them into the chasers and keepers. The bludgers are actually people. Sirius and Remus volunteered to play these roles very enthusiastically, which was equally exciting and frightening. That leaves seekers.

And I'm apparently the seeker for our team. This means that I have to compete with Harry to accomplish the same task. Our task, of course, is capturing the snitch. The snitch is also a person, Tonks actually, and she gets to use Harry's invisibility cloak to run around the downstairs. As seekers, we have to tackle her to get our points.

This is going to be the most memorable game of Living Room Quidditch _ever_.

"You're the seeker?" I hear Harry ask from nearby. I didn't notice him walk up. "I guess we're rivals then."

I guess we are.

Harry Potter versus Ginny Weasley.

Red versus Blue.

 _Glance_.

He's a hell of a seeker. If I want him to take me seriously, then I guess I'm going to have to be a better one.

* * *

My blue bandana is now functioning as an ice pack. Harry and I were chasing Tonks down the hallway towards the kitchen and somehow our feet got crossed. Harry dropped down on the stop but I went flying into the cabinets and cut open my left cheek. I should've waited for someone to check me out, but my dress flew up and everything was showing.

Harry tried to comfort me before I left, but I ran away as fast as I could manage.

My door is shut and I've buried myself beneath all my pillows and blankets.

"Worst Christmas Eve ever," I mumble, defeat washing over me. I couldn't make sure one thing went smoothly, let alone an entire day. Somewhere downstairs, Harry Potter is telling everyone that I've bit it and I've gone to my room, and they'll think I'm _crying_.

I'm _not_ crying.

"Knock, knock," someone from the hall says. It's a boy.

It's not just any boy, either.

"Go away, Harry," I say as I pull the blankets over my head even further. If he comes in, I don't want him to see me like this – I don't want him to see me at all.

I don't know why I'm saying 'if' he comes in because he opens the door with almost no hesitation whatsoever, closing it behind him as well. "Are you okay?" he asks gently.

Being the mature girl that I am - I ignore him.

"Come on, this isn't like you," he says clearly, like he knows me. But, of course, he is right. This isn'tlike _me_ at all _._ I don't cry about things or lock myself away in my bedroom.

"I know." I'm not sure how I've managed to say anything, let alone agree with him. I decide to peel the sheets away and glance out at him. Just as I emerge from my cocoon, I see him plopping onto my bed at my feet. "I just feel a bit off, I guess."

"I can tell," he laughs.

I could listen to that laugh for the rest of my life.

"I just wanted you to have a good time. I wanted this to be a perfect day for everyone." This declaration is flat because it is only half true. I did want today to be good for my family, for everything to go smoothly, but I wanted Harry to see us at our best. Today should've been about creating happy memories and I let it get twisted into a day about only Harry Potter.

I can see in Harry's eyes that he thinks he is more than an outsider. He thinks he's a monster too. After seeing my father's attack, I know he believes he doesn't belong here. He doesn't feel like he deserves to be happy with his friends.

But he's wrong to feel that way. "Ron tries to tell me that you're frightening."

"He _would_ say that." I poke all the way out of my covers, still holding my blue bandana ice pack to my cheek. "I think he's more scared of who he could be if he just tried a little than he is of me."

"Oh, absolutely. Ron's brilliant when he wants to be," Harry admits.

We sit there for a moment, just the two of us in my bedroom as silence balances in the empty space between us. We are surrounded by blue walls, blue clothes, and some unspoken feeling – an aching blueness, maybe. He is sad, which makes me sad. It's all the same sorrow in the end. It starts to feel wrong, all this quiet. It's too much _blue_.

"Who won?" I ask, not really caring. Anything to get us talking again.

"Red," he said with a grin, carefully glancing at me. When I meet his eyes, though, he turns his gaze away nervously. "I told them you got Tonks first."

"Oh," Swinging my legs off the bed and offering my free hand to him, I decide that no matter how he takes it - I owe this to myself. Maybe this is a cowardly way to tell him how I feel, but getting it off my chest just might make the rest of the day as perfect as he deserves. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

"What?" He asks while I'm pulling him to his feet. Suddenly everything feels easier. I don't know why I've been worrying about this for so long now that it's kind of out in the open. Mostly, anyway.

"What?" I ask, more confident in my 'what' than him. He seems to be considering what I've said when the biggest grin spreads out across his face.

"Cool." I'm about to ask him what that means when I think better of it. Also when he decides to correct himself. "I mean - thanks."

He says it as more of a question, but that's not what captures my attention. I think - is he? Is Harry blushing? I bite down on my tongue to prevent myself from smiling at him. But he is. He _is_ blushing. I'm thinking - maybe - it's possible that…

He just might love me back.

 _What a thought - Harry Potter and me - and all our stolen glances._

* * *

 **Acknowledgements:**

These BETA readers are the absolute bestest of the bestest because this was not a short story to BETA read and honestly such a rough piece of proper shite when I first asked for feedback. So major kudos, many digital treats to these fine people: TheCrownprincessBride, ouranose, and 2DaughtersofAthena.  
Also, thanks to my husband and my son for listening to me read this aloud as I worked through the many different versions that came before the BETA reads.  
I'm so lucky to have such great people on my side :)


	6. I Love You, I Love You Not

**House:** Ravenclaw

 **Year:** 3rd Year

 **Category:** Bonus Round 3

 **Prompt:** First experience/First time doing something (theme), Muggle H.S.

 **W/C:** 2,999 (Google), 2,998 (Word)

 **Notes:** Blog format; Muggledom AU for Next Gen. Mild swearing.

* * *

 **Read & Enjoy**

* * *

 **I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU NOT**

 _This is a blog dedicated to the retelling of the first major break-up of my life._

 _Sometimes, you just have to tell your story to an audience you can't see._

 _#aroseandherthoughts_

* * *

 **INTRODUCING: ROSE GRANGER-WEASLEY**

 _ **June 11, 2021**_

You don't know me, and I don't know you, but in order to understand the purpose of this blog, you're going to need to know me. So listen up!

Rose Granger-Weasley, that's me, is a super intelligent and super talented athlete. I'm the starting center forward for my football team, I'm the top in my class, and I've got the world's best sense of humor. That comes from my dad. The brains, that's more my mum. Now that you know the important details, let's talk some obscure stuff.

Sometimes, when I'm really inclined, I date people.

Woah, gasp, CRAZY, what?

Yeah, so I date people on rare occasions. I dated this one boy when I was fourteen. I don't think my parents knew, sorry guys, but we held hands at the movies and kissed behind my dad's joke shop. Well, my dad's _and_ uncle's, but that's irrelevant. I hated it. We stopped "dating" the very next day.

I dated another boy last summer, a few months after that, just before I turned fifteen, and it was proper dating. We went to the cinema and ate out together, plus the hand holding and snogging bits. We broke up when I decided that I couldn't be dating someone, though, because this is my last year of high school. My academics come first, right? No way was I going to be distracted by a boyfriend.

That's me, you know? Sports and school first.

At least, that's what it was supposed to be, but something happened that threw a wrench in my plan.

#introductionplease #aroseandherthoughts

* * *

 **JARED LEE CARMICHAEL, BEST BOYFRIEND EXTRAORDINAIRE**

 _ **June 12, 2021**_

You know how girls are at my age, right? They're fawning over their "OMG BEST BF EVA" and posting selfies of their "OMG BEST BF EVA" kissing their cheek while they drink a smoothie of some sort. Admittedly, I have a ton of a friends who are _exactly_ like that and I never complain to their faces about it, mostly because I love them and insulting them to their face seems kind of rude.

So I just take pictures of me kissing my football or textbooks instead. Complaining through mockery. My dad says that it's a very tactful approach. My mom, on the other hand, thinks I worry too much about technology and how my peers are using it. I love her, but she married my dad for a reason, and it's because, sometimes, she forgets how to have fun on her own. Those pictures of me kissing the things that matter most to me are the actual definition of fun. My last picture got almost one hundred kudos on it and a few dozen comments about my love affairs with inanimate objects.

My friends think I'm attracted to _things_ instead of _people_.

Sometimes... I think they might be right.

But that, my friend, is where Jared Lee Carmichael, Best Boyfriend Extraordinaire, comes into play.

What can I say about Jared Lee Carmichael? He is muscular but lean. With his wavy blonde hair and brown eyes, he's as attractive as they come, very model-like appearance. Without a doubt, he's the most talented actor at school, with a real future in theater if he continues on the same path. In addition to all of this, though, he can flatter the common sense out of the smartest person in the room.

I guess that's how he snared me in the end. He made me feel special.

We found ourselves in the same sort of group at lunch one day talking about the difference between how girls and guys play football. Trying to make a point about how often men take fake dives to get penalty kicks, whereas women will play with a bloodied face before acting their way into an unearned goal. So I made a joke about girls having bigger balls than boys, and gestured to my chest. (Sorry, Mum, I know you think that kind of thing is a crude effort to get a laugh). Jared laughed so bloody loud that everyone in the cafeteria was gawking at our table trying to figure out what was so funny.

I'll spare you the details, but Jared explained to the whole of the student body the similarities between breasts and the male genitals. It was mortifying. Well, _in hindsight,_ it was mortifying and I can't believe I made that comparison. But at the time? I felt like a superstar. Everyone laughed at _my_ joke.

Jared Lee Carmichael, popular boy and total babe, laughed at _my_ joke.

Jared bragged about my jokes all day. A rumor started that we were secretly dating. By the end of the day, I got a notification that we were in a relationship online. Absurd? Definitely. But did I go along with it? Well, funny thing about that...

The smart part of my brain said that this was totally ridiculous, that no good could possibly come from a relationship that stemmed from a rumor that stemmed from a joke I never should've made, that stemmed from a place of legitimate rage about the way football is played professionally. My brain knew that this was going to be nothing but trouble.

Unfortunately, I let my teenage hormones get the better of me. I went along with it.

All at once, very suddenly, I was dating the most desirable guy in school.

Within days, I, too, was posting pictures of my boyfriend kissing my cheek while I slurped at a smoothie that was way overpriced. From then on out, it was gifts galore and the high feeling of being a promising athlete with a popular boyfriend, basically putting me at the top of the social order at school.

So, yeah. Jared Lee Carmichael, best boyfriend extraordinaire.

#bestboyfriendextraordinaire #aroseandherthoughts

* * *

 **I LOVE YOU…**

 _ **June 13, 2021**_

"I love you."

"I love you more."

"No, I love you more."

"No, I love _you_ more."

"No, I do!"

"No, _I_ do!"

You know the type. New relationships are like that, and I wish it wasn't true about me, but I fell into that trap as well. For all my brains, all my smarts, and all my terrific marks, I became _that_ person.

Jared would bring me perfume at the end of the start of the day. He came across the scent while he was at the mall, where he works, nothing to be suspicious about at all, and he thought of me. So he bought it. As a boyfriend does, sometimes.

Well, in Jared's case, like _all_ the time.

He texted me romantic poems after school, and would serenade me in the cafeteria; we were quite the spectacle. Hand holding, snogging, sitting on each other's laps, and – yes – doing the whole "I love you more" bit as we returned to class.

Just to put that into perspective…

I've never said 'I love you' to anyone else. Not my friends. Not my cousins. Not even my aunts and uncles. Just my mum, my dad, my brother, and my grandparents.

That whole "I love you more" junk was a pretty big deal to me, and not just because it's so stupid; I meant it.

Even now, after everything that has happened, I can say, wholeheartedly, that I meant that shit when I said it to him.

#iloveyouandotherlovethings #aroseandherthoughts

* * *

 **I LOVE YOU NOT…**

 _ **June 14, 2021**_

Yeah, I know. "Rose Granger-Weasley, I thought this was a blog dedicated to your first major break-up, why are you talking all about how much you love this guy?" It's a bit of a slow start, but we're there, okay? Are you happy?

Tell me that you're happy because I'm going to need it as I recall the reason that I broke up with Jared Lee Carmichael, best boyfriend extraordinaire.

Or, as I call him now, Jared Lee Carmichael, _cheating boyfriend extraordinaire._

It doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

That's what he is though: a cheating boyfriend extraordinaire. I'll give him some credit, I guess, because he cheated on me with two other girls. They were from different high schools, too, which meant that our chances of running into one another were incredibly small in the vastness that is London.

How he kept up with it, though, is amazing. We dated about four months, and he was cheating the entire time! Where did he get the energy and money to fool around with that many different girls? Honestly, if he can at least tell me that, I think I'd consider us even. He broke my heart, sure, but at least I'd have an endless trove of energy to use in my professional football career. That's about as even as it gets, I think.

As you can imagine, good friend, I was pretty devastated. How had a smart girl like me, a tried and true Granger girl, fallen for such a piece of trash like him?

Because he made me feel special.

Why did I need to feel special? Why wasn't my blossoming football career enough? And what about my good grades? I can just about have a pick of any university I'd like. My family is grand and I have dozens upon dozens of genuinely good friends. Why did I need a _boyfriend_ to make me feel special?

Even I can't explain it to myself.

All I know is that when I stumbled across one of his other social media accounts where he was posting pictures of himself with this voluptuous blonde with big blue eyes. They were laying all over each other in every picture, talking about the value of physical expression when in love. As if that wasn't enough, I started poking around online.

Jared tried really hard to keep his three lives separate, but he made the mistake of reusing his email for his social media accounts. I was able to find another page where he was posting pictures of himself with another girl, a foreign exchange student from Japan, who is also gorgeous. They posted videos of themselves acting out their favorite scenes from Shakespeare, and then laughing uncontrollably at each other when they mess up.

I wanted to be mad at the girls, but when I reached out to them on their private accounts, neither of them were even aware he was a high school student. He had told them he was taking a break year before university and that he was gone all day because he was working. They were totally clueless.

When I initially contacted them, I was going to accuse of being accomplices in this whole cheating scandal – that they stole _my_ boyfriend. But that wasn't the case, was it? Jared lied to them. He'd lied to me. They couldn't have possibly known the truth unless they were looking into him online. And unless they looked hard enough, they wouldn't have found anything anyway, so how could I blame them?

And couldn't they blame me too? He was their boyfriend just the same as he was mine.

None of us were in the wrong.

" _I love you more."_

What was I thinking?

#iloveyouiloveyounot #aroseandherthoughts

* * *

 **DON'T GET MAD**

 _ **June 15, 2021**_

I wanted to be really mad at Jared. We shared a lot of firsts. He was my first 'online official' boyfriend. He was my first Valentine. He was the first boyfriend I introduced to my parents. He was my first date to a school event.

There are some other more explicit firsts, if I'm being honest, and I'm sure my parents are going to want to have 'the talk' again after they see this, but I promise that it's not necessary. That's one first we didn't share.

I think the hardest first we shared, though, was that he was my first "I love you."

Nobody wants their first "I love you" to be with a total loser. My mum said it to her first boyfriend, and they stayed in contact for years after their broke up. I was hoping for something more like that – ending on good terms, staying friends for the rest of our lives. I didn't expect it to be a 'forever' sort of deal.

Getting mad felt like the right thing to do, but no matter how hard I tried – I couldn't get mad at him. Jared was the worst. Sure, he showered me in gifts, and he picked me flowers, and sometimes he made public declarations of love, but none of that makes up for the wrong he did to me.

And, that's why I eventually decided to use my energy for something far more effective than getting mad…

#awisewomanswords #aroseandherthoughts

* * *

 **GET EVEN**

 _ **June 16, 2021**_

Jared Lee Carmichael needed to pay for what he did to me.

He needed to pay for what he did to his other girlfriends.

He needed to pay for what he did to every girlfriend he's ever had.

Maybe this was petty, but I bribed his friends to tell me every girlfriend they've ever known Jared to have, and how to contact them. I compiled a list of nearly thirty names. Clearly, he'd been busy.

Anyway, I contacted the girls and gathered as much information as I could. I asked for pictures of them with Jared, dates for how long they were together, and anything remarkable about him that I could use for – good? No, I was definitely using the information for evil.

Being the nerdy Granger girl that I am, I used this information to create an infographic. Scorpius Malfoy had to help me out because he's a little bit better with graphic and web design than I am, but the general format was all me. By the end, I was able to prove that Jared Lee Carmichael has always been a cheating boyfriend extraordinaire.

Jared started "dating" when he was twelve years old. I couldn't believe that, by the way, can you? Dating when you're twelve? You know what I was doing at twelve? Having an existential crisis about whether I wanted to get into law, like my mum, or football, like my aunt. I cried for days because I couldn't choose between them.

I chose football, if that hasn't become obvious to you by now.

Jared has never had an honest relationship with anyone. Most of his girlfriends had thought he was a pure-of-heart, genuinely invested boyfriend. As I compiled data about his history, however, I noticed that he's never been with just one girl for very long. His heart starts to fade and his mind starts to wander about two weeks into a relationship, though he once lasted an entire month before he started sneaking around behind his girlfriend's back.

Before you ask, though, it wasn't me.

Scorpius offered to pay for five posters to be printed. We posted them in the five most important locations to Jared's whole scheme.

We hung a poster in the food court at the mall where he works.

We hung a poster in the girls' bathroom near the cafeteria where everyone stops to wash their hands after lunch at our high school.

We snuck into his blonde girlfriend's high school and hung a poster in the girls' bathroom closest to the parking lot.

We snuck into the foreign exchange girlfriend's high school and hung a poster in the girls' dressing room in the theater.

We put a copy of the poster in the subway that he uses most often to get to work and school.

Needless to say, I wanted to make sure that nobody else was fooled into thinking that Jared Lee Carmichael was a serious boyfriend. He's more the kind of boyfriend you date if you just want to test the waters, someone you pick up at a party but leave before morning. Jared is your "for fun" boyfriend.

He is not the kind of guy you should say your first "I love you" to, not by a long shot.

#abadchoiceforabadboy #aroseandherthoughts

* * *

 **THERE'S A FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING!**

 _ **June 17, 2021**_

I never expected there to be so many readers here. I posted the link at the bottom of the posters hopeful that a handful of people would actually visit it. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would have over a thousand people would come read these seven selfish posts about my first heartbreak. That's really neat.

Because, you see, stories like this matter.

Teenagers get swept up in those feelings of love. Everyone wants to _have_ the perfect significant other or _be_ the perfect significant other, even if it's unrealistic. We can't even see when something is too good to be true at our age.

"But, Rose, what about the people who meet their future spouse when they're fifteen?"

It's possible, but that takes so much work. Those situations aren't easy, they aren't blind, and they're not perfect. Being in a long-term relationship that means something requires a whole lot of honesty. And, right now, I don't see very many teenagers being honest in their relationships because I don't see a lot of teenagers being honest with _themselves_.

We use filters when we post pictures of ourselves online. Hashtags define the value we have in the photo we staged to share with our friends. I see teenagers in pictures of their boyfriends and girlfriends, but those same teenagers go home and put their time into something else. We only share the parts of ourselves that other people want to see.

I'm seeing clearly for the first time now that I'm grounded for "trying to destroy someone's social image, even though he totally deserved it." (Thanks, Mum, for that delightful wording, by the way).

It's weird being grounded. I've never been before…

But there's a first time for everything, isn't there?

#fortheverylasttime #aroseandherthoughts

* * *

 **Acknowledgements:**

All of my BETA reading was done over the course of 12 hours, and my editing completed over two hours. Getting from my first little blurb of a concept for this story to this finished product was a long process but totally worth it. This chapter holds such a special part in my heart and I hope that you enjoyed reading it. My BETA buddies were fabulous, and also talented writers themselves: **2DaughtersofAthena** and **nottheonlyfangirl.**


	7. My Dearest Remus

My Dearest Remus,

Loving you is hardest thing that I've ever done, and something about that is invigorating beyond words. Convincing you to accept that intimate affection sounded so difficult, but I think you fell faster than you care to admit. Our biggest struggle getting to this day was meeting in the middle. The both of us loving each other in exactly the same way at exactly the same time…

I said that I loved you first, but you showed me long before you ever said it aloud. I saw it in the little things. Your breathing when I shoved you after a really good joke, your lingering stares whenever I was leaving a room. You always sent me home with my favorite sweets after the Order met to discuss the dark events plaguing our world. This world, this world that would see your kind murdered, this world that thought people like me were blood traitors – this world that we wanted to see into better times…

You were this brilliant silver light through all the evil that wanted suffocate us. I couldn't ignore you. Not that I wanted to, of course. I often found my thoughts wandering back to you, sometimes when it wasn't appropriate, sometimes when there were more important things to be thinking about instead. That's why I invited you for a drink in London, do you remember?

"You are fascinating, Remus Lupin, and I would really like to take you out for a drink," I had said to you in the plainest words I could conjure. Back then - I thought getting those words past my chattering teeth was harder than non-verbal spell casting. Now? It turns out that this was the easiest part of everything we've done.

Drinks in London quickly turned into dinners in London, and then turned again to dinners at your flat, or dinner at mine. Dinner quickly morphed into us crashing at one another's homes, too tired and too attached to stay alone. Of course, we were sleeping alone, weren't we? I usually laid awake several nights on your couch, thinking about what it might be light to share a bed with you instead.

For weeks I dreamt of that moment when you'd invite me into your room, innocence frayed on the edges your usually tired and raspy voice. That day never came the way I had imagined it. Instead, you had a particularly terrifying nightmare and I woke to your heart shattering screams. You were upright against the headboard, tears rolling down your face, gasping for air. I took it upon myself to crawl into bed with you, holding you in my arms until you felt safe enough to fall back asleep.

I moved in with you unofficially at that point. We discussed it over breakfast and it was agreed that it was safer for us, being in the Order and all. Part of me knew that I loved you already, but the other part of me just wanted to share what life we had left together without any strings, without any expectations. After all, those who stand against Voldemort eventually die. We both knew the story of the Potters, of the Longbottoms. No, we wanted this to be casual. If anyone asked, we just felt safer together.

Shared concerns, shared bills, shared loss – these things that once dominated our every thought became somewhat secondary to the happier things we learned to share. You quickly learned I'm a rotten chef, and I learned that you do a terrible job taking care of yourself properly. One day, I decided that you were doing way more for me than I was able to offer you. You've been on your own for much longer than I have been, and I recognized that you had more to offer.

That's why I approached you about this idea of mine. I wanted to go with you when you changed. If I were with you, the injuries could be reduced. I had thought I could help keep you calm. Obviously, you resisted: "No, Dora, you cannot come with me when I change. That crosses the line we've drawn."

A line drawn in sand - I shouted that, didn't I? Fury made me spit my disagreement. What were we doing thinking that we could just have this casual relationship? We thought it meant nothing but I realized too late that I was an idiot to agree to those terms. I told you that I loved you too much to let you do this dangerous thing on your own even once more. You told me that I couldn't love a 'filthy mongrel' like you, and then you asked me to leave you alone.

So I slept at my house that night.

And you showed up, raggedy and broken at my doorstep the very next day.

"I am sorry," you said in shredded breaths. "I can't lose you, Dora."

I will never forget the look on your face when you said that to me. It was the first time you were completely honest with me about your feelings. I would've had you then and there. I had to clean you up, though, and we got you into the bathroom right afterwards.

This letter is getting so long. I hope it doesn't scare you away. With all of my heart, I want nothing more than to marry you tomorrow. I don't care that it's on my parents' back porch with only Sirius bloody Black as our witness. Life is too short to run away from the only thing worth running towards – we know that better than anyone else, I think.

We kissed for the first time after I got you cleaned up that night. It wasn't special, it wasn't even good, but it was an important milestone. In my mind, this was the point of no return. Once I tasted you on my lips, there was no other future for me.

You then told me that you loved the day before your next transformation, though far more properly than when I said that I loved you. Something about this full moon felt different to you, that's what you were saying anyway. Maybe you thought you'd kill me. Maybe you thought I'd leave you. Only you know the real reason behind it. Though, I did believe you. I tried to say it back but I couldn't get it to roll of my tongue because, like this full moon, something didn't feel right about saying it back.

I did love you, but I loved you differently. I wasn't caught up yet. I loved you enough to be with you, I loved you enough to want to help you, but I didn't know yet that I loved you enough to choose you. To choose you even when you were a dirty, rotten bastard after I lied about getting hurt during your transformation to avoid having you push me away.

To choose you when you said you would abandon the Order if I didn't move all of my things out the next morning.

To choose you when you said that I was too desperate and clingy, too young and wild-hearted, too careless and misguided. You used our age, you used my blood status, you used our friends – everyone was a weapon for you to cast me aside like I didn't matter.

But I chose you – every bloody time.

I wasn't any better. I resorted to name-calling and belittling and lying. Anything and everything to trick you into taking back your thoughtless jibes at me. We were not right for each other at all during that time. Our relationship was tough for a few months. At one point or another we even sat down and told one another off – life was too short to be this miserable, to want to tear each other down so often.

You left me alone and stayed with Sirius for a few days.

Even though I've wanted to pry the truth from you, I never asked about what happened while you away – what convinced you to come back. I remember scrubbing the flat until it sparkled – without magic – and tidying everything in our rooms up. If we weren't going to be in a relationship, fine, but I was living here. I gave up my flat and dedicated myself to this arrangement. If that meant sleeping in your guest room and pretending that we're just friends, that's what I had do then.

Eventually you showed up with your suitcase and sullen look, I broke down. I told you that I loved you too much to give up. I rambled on and on about how the time we spent apart put it into perspective – it hadn't – that I loved you through hell and high water, and that I wasn't letting all of that go without a fight.

"Let's slow down a bit, okay?" You said it and I felt myself deflate. The last thing we needed was to slow down, but I didn't want to lose you. So I submitted.

Our world changed so quickly. One night we went out for drinks separately. There was no communication about our different evening plans. Yet somehow, we ended up in the same pub. I did myself up like a blonde, low cut jeans and a half buttoned plaid shirt. It must have appealed to someone's interests because someone offered to buy me a drink. You didn't like that I was being flirted with, I guess, cause you saddled your way up and sat next to me.

"Are you ready to go home, love?"

Love.

We went home that night, and it's crazy to think that this was only a couple of weeks ago, but we went home and you told me there and then that you wanted to marry me. How could we go from barely functioning in a relationship to diving headfirst into a proper one? Our love had never been a healthy one; our love had never been on the same page. What were we doing?

What are we doing?

I didn't know, I still don't know, but I have never need something as badly as I need to be your wife. Every ache, pain, and tear-stained pillowcase has been worth this wait. You're sitting in the next room, probably wide-awake if you're anything like the Remus Lupin that I love, and you're just staring at the wall trying to decide if this is the right choice. I don't think our marriage will be smooth sailing, not until this war is behind us, not until we can build up your confidence. Someday, though, this love will be pure bliss.

And you deserve it.

Repeat this truth until you believe me, Remus, because it will never change.

I love you.

Beyond words.

Beyond actions.

Beyond reason.

Only until morning,

Nymphadora Tonks


	8. This is Good-bye

Trigger Warnings: Alcoholism, Violent outbursts leading to self-harm, Unstable mental health

Author's Note: This chapter deals with the dark theme of struggling with severe depression. I ask that you exercise caution if you feel that you cannot read this without being triggered. Your health is more important than your reading this chapter. Thank you for exercising caution on this matter. And remember – you are loved, you have value, and you are important.

* * *

Flesh stretches over my clenched fists, and it rips when I smash my fingers into the headboard of my bed. There's no blood left behind on the dust-covered wood, but it is pooling over my knuckles. A droplet gets on my pillowcase. It's not the first time, it won't be the last time, and I'm all too familiar with this self-inflicted ache.

It hurts less than the pain I can't choose.

Every single morning I am trigged by the reflective glass of my water cup on the nightstand, seeing his face instead of mine. I see Fred before I see George. I see my half of our whole – alone – and it absolutely breaks me. I only look for a moment and find myself gasping for breath and choking back tears while I struggle to get on my feet. Grief is process, a series of stages that must be felt in order to heal. That's what everyone has been preaching to me for two years now. Of course, they fail to mention that it's not just a process. This whole blasted mess is a never-ending cycle that is constantly consuming me whole, only to spit me out again.

Repeating this way in no particular order, without warning, I usually find myself flat on my face after having a really good day, reminded of the stinging loss of my twin brother.

Most mornings, I can get out of bed without crying. Every task afterwards is an uphill battle. If I make it to the end of this rat race I now call my life, there's some semblance of stability that I can cling to through the worst of times. Though, that's never really helpful in the long run. I always end up back on my arse, broken and ruined.

"Fuck," I whisper as I quickly close my eyes. I accidentally let my gaze settle Fred's desk and every little detail that defines it. Dust coats the quills and ink wells. A radio is lying flat on the table with the speakers aimed at the ceiling, from when Fred was using it as a paperweight. Underneath it are the codenames and notes he kept for the broadcast we did during the war. Seeing this undisturbed scene rips at the seams vigorously, forcing me to cover my eyes.

Instead of shuffling to the window to open the curtains and risk seeing my reflection in the windowpanes too, I silently magic them open. Sunlight, and its correlating warmth, is supposed to be uplifting but all it does it make the cold, emptiness inside of me more apparent. I am reminded that I am one part of a two-man act, the living half of pair, and the last man standing. I am no longer 'Fred and George.'

I am just George.

Just George bloody Weasley.

Wanting to free of my shackles of loneliness, I shift quickly into the hallway. The weight lifted from my shoulders is small, but I am somewhat at peace as I inch closer to the bathroom. Nobody is supposed to be using this toilet because it is the one I shared with him. Without ever asking, everyone has been respecting our – _my_ \- space. They understand the gaping hole left in my heart and my need to keep the world around me as unchanged as possible. Out of habit, though, I still knock on the door.

"One moment, Fred," my mother shouts after cracking the door open to see who needs the loo. It isn't uncommon for her to go into this bathroom to clean it out and replace the towels. I don't mind when she does these things for me because it is less that I must attend to myself. Besides, Ginny moved out only a few weeks ago after getting engaged to Harry. My mother needs to busy herself with something until the wedding date is set.

Hopefully she hasn't tampered with my whisky in the medicine cabinet, though.

"George," I correct her softly as she's stepping into the hallway. "Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother?"

I used to say this quite often to her, when she was always confusing Fred and I for one another. At the time it felt so silly, the idea that a mother couldn't tell her identical twins a part, and we nagged her in great excess. That's our humor - that _was_ our humor style. In hindsight, maybe we could have bothered her less about it.

Even I am stricken by how interchangeable we are – _were_.

How interchangeable we _were_ …

"I'm sorry, George," she offers, eyes glazing over with regret and shame. It's not the same look she gave when we harangued her for getting us wrong. A once fiery tempered woman that was always fed up with her wily sons is now reduced to the flimsy retort of a woman who doesn't even realize that she can't let go of the way things used to be between us. Sorrow covers both of our hearts; I squeeze her hand to acknowledge that I understand her mistake. Sometimes I talk to him, too, when I can stand to look at myself long enough or am almost happy enough to forget.

My mother heads downstairs awkwardly, not knowing how to recover but not wanting to make a bigger deal of it than is necessary. Once I am sure she's out of sight, I push myself into the bathroom. I am careful not to look into the mirror after I shut the door and lock it.

Then I take several deep breaths.

In – one, two three – out – one, two, three.

In – one, two three, four – out – one, two, three, four.

I remind myself that I have to do this in repetition of three. The doctors say I should try to do everything in odd numbers so that I start thinking in uneven sets. It's supposed to help me overcome not having Fred with me, making me an odd man out. So I open my mouth to do it again…

…

…

But I decided to kick the waste bin instead.

Trash goes everywhere. Crusty tissues litter the floor, as do broken beer bottles and candy wrappers. Some days will pass and the only things I've had to eat are the chocolates and snacks from the shop's break room – and the only thing I've drank is whisky or scotch. I grab onto the edge of the sink and bury my chin in my chest.

I have to brush my teeth. This is not optional. I _have_ to do it because good dental hygiene is important, no, _required_ for good health. The difficulty of this simple task varies with my mental state, and today it is harder than ever. With great effort and careful skill, I start walking myself through the steps I know I have to take.

First off, I can't keep my chin down. I have to look up. I take a deep breath in – one, two, three. Once my chin is parallel with the floor, I have to open my eyes. Nothing about this process really requires me to look in the mirror. Instead, I'll pick a focal point to avoid looking at my reflection. I prefer to focus on the wire inside of the light bulb. Not only will I be temporarily blinded, but my mind will allot so much energy to keeping my eyes open that I won't even notice that I've grabbed my toothbrush and started to brush my teeth. After that, I'll focus on my teeth.

Next – dragging my right hand up to open the cabinet. I am able to bring my eyes down long enough to identify where my toothbrush is sitting. I see it is on the second shelf from the bottom, where I always put it, but I also see that I have bloodied knuckles. Today is not a good day.

Before I can even stop myself, I make my third step grabbing the whisky bottom from the top shelf, where there's room enough for it to stand upright. Defeat oozes from my sigh, and I know that I should be disappointed in myself, but I let the hurt win. Some days – I can't win the battle.

Some days – I don't want to.

I run my shower water cold. When I lose, I don't see any reason to award myself any comforts. I want to feel as cold as my brother. _Cold as the dead_ , I tell myself. I feel dead, so I should feel cold too. And not just on the inside.

I'm not drinking from the whisky bottle yet. It is in my hands, I'm cradling it right in front of my waist while I decide whether I'll take a drink or not. The doctors are always telling me to do the breathing technique. It is supposed to be good for calming the mind, for centering one's self so that a clearer train of thought can follow. As far as I'm concerned, it doesn't help. It only slows me down from whatever self-destructive act I'm planning for myself.

But I am trying it again anyway. Dad is always asking me, "How many times did you try breathing today?" If I were a better son, I would be honest with him every time. If I don't do it at all, I do try to tell him, but I also make it seem like when I am trying it that I'm trying it more than I have done. Sometimes I add only one more, but if I'm feeling particularly bad I'll say it was two or three more than I tried. The breathing doesn't help. Neither does the lying. I'm losing twice, but what more can I really lose? My sanity is barely mine anymore.

 _In – one, two three._

 _Hold – one, two, three._

 _Out – one, two, three._

 _In – one, two, three, four._

 _Hold – one, two, three, four._

 _Out – one, two, three, four._

 _In – one, two._

 _Hold – one, two._

 _Out – one, two_.

And I still feel awful. It takes me less time to unscrew the lid of the bottle and take a swig than it did to breathe through my suffering. I take another swig. And another. And another. And another. It burns but I am laughing it off, choking a bit as I rush to pour more down my throat. Swallowing these mouthfuls isn't doing anything for my sobriety, so I begin chugging it.

My face hurts, my mouth hurts, my throat hurts, and even my teeth hurt. But I want to hurt. Why should I pretend that I'm not in pain? Why should I practice my breathing exercises and redirect my thoughts, and narrow my focus when it's never going to stop being like this? There is no future where I can stand on my own two feet without wanting Fred by my side. He was stolen from me.

They may as well have taken my life too. I fear that I will forever be nothing without him.

The bottle is dry already. I turn around and smash it against the faucet in my rage. Glass shards go everywhere but they are quickly washing away with the flow of water from the showerhead. I keep my eyes downcast, being sure to count every piece and chunk of glass that I can see. If I were redirecting my thoughts, maybe I could turn this mistake into a positive moment. Somehow this can be turned into a reflection point, I'm sure. Maybe I can make myself aware of my downward spiral and write down my triggers.

But what am I supposed to do when everything around me is a trigger? They say I should move into a different room, but I'm in the same house. So then they say I should get my own place. That would be fine, I suppose, if someone came to check on me daily – which would be mandatory, I think, with the current state of my mind. Of course, there'll always be the one thing that is unavoidable…

The joke shop.

I turn the water off and watch it draining slowly since glass is clogging the pipes. I can see a blurry version of my naked body in the ripples off of my legs. My livelihood is a business I built up with Fred. There are people that don't know he's died and they come in, they read the sign in the front window, they see our mission statement etched into the wood at the front counter:

 _We're Fred and George Weasley, twin tricksters looking to put a little more laugh into the world._

They ask which one I am. I always tell them the truth. If I tell them that I'm Fred, everyone will want me locked up. I can't be him and I can't pretend to be him. Even I know that this would be the final straw between trying to move on and being put into a white padded room. My parents couldn't lose me too – especially not in such a way that they watch me deteriorate. I remind myself regularly that this is worse than being ripped from them unexpectedly.

"Damn it, Fred," I growl at my feet. "I can't keep doing this."

Silent magic has become a specialty of mine; though the intellectual integrity that it takes to master this skill wouldn't fit my state of mind these days. I use it every day just to get through tasks that are too trying for me. I clear the glass from the drain and magic the bottle back together. While I can't magic the whisky from my stomach, and I accept that this was the choice I made, I can do what I can through this distorted clarity. I step out of the shower without ever cleaning and put the bottle in the trash.

Positioning myself at the mirror again, hands wrapped around the edge of the porcelain just as I did a few minutes ago, I go through a different list of things I have to do to get through this task:

I – am George Weasley.

I do not look like my brother. I lost an ear before he died. When I look in the mirror, I am seeing George Weasley.

It is okay to be in pain. It is okay to make mistakes.

And it is okay to talk to him. As long as his memory is alive, he is listening.

If this is this is going to be successful then I need to make these movements quickly. I jerky my head up and lock on my own eyes in the mirror, removing my hands from the sink at the same time. Breathing at a steady pace, I have to push my words over my tongue and out of my mouth before I forget them.

"I love you, Fred," I say flatly, speaking with every ounce of life I have left inside of me. "I love you but I can't let you dictate everything anymore. You're not here." My eyes are watering. I can feel it and I can see it. My throat is tightening, which makes the breathing pattern difficult. I have to get it these last words out. I have to tell him that I can't do this again. Today is the last time. It has to be…

"I love you so bloody much," I declare, though it's not revelatory in any way. Everyone who knows me knows that nobody in this world mattered more to me than he did. The love that twins share is unimaginably strong, unfathomably permanent. I won't be able to finish any of my thoughts if I try to open my mouth again – I'll crumble and continue this fucked up pattern I've fallen into since his death. So I allow my temper to flare one last time. Fingers curl into a fist and rise up so quickly that I'm not sure there's a measure of time appropriate enough to describe it.

My hands thrash and punch at the mirror, sending my final confrontation with Fred into oblivion. All this time, the doctors and my family have been urging me to confront this veil of darkness looming over me. Breathing techniques, awareness, and redirection – none of that was ever going to work. I needed something more tangible. And this is it.

When I see the large triangular shards piling in the sink, blood droplets on them, I see a part of myself that I've come to hate – finally in pieces. This is what rock bottom looks like, this is what it feels like, and this – this is where I belong. This is what I deserve.

And this?

"This is good-bye, Fred," I hum, tears falling over my cheeks but a genuine smile turning my lips upwards. I'd forgotten how good it feels to actually find happiness in something. Sucking in the stagnant air of the bathroom, I twist my body and magic the door open so that I don't have to touch my bloody fists to it. I summon a towel to wrap around my waist, and a smaller rag to cover my fists.

Healing hurts, but for the first time ever – healing feels good too.


	9. Not According to Plan

Rolf is pacing in front of the door, trying to prepare himself for the afternoon. His grandfather, the famous Newt Scamander, has come over for brunch rather unexpectedly. In tandem with that, Luna owl'd that she would be coming around for tea to discuss plans to travel to Romania together and study dragon breeding. The timing, albeit unintentionally impeccable, isn't precisely was Rolf has been hoping.

Luna Lovegood is an amazing woman, and a young one. Being twenty-four years her senior, Rolf has realized that finding a way to introduce her to the family as, not only his co-worker, but his girlfriend too, is proving slightly more difficult than he imagined. The age gap cannot be seen now, but in a few more years, should they stay together, and he does truly hope they do, will become wildly apparent.

All of that in mind, the plan was for Luna to meet his parents first, and then his Grandma Tina by herself quite some time before ever meeting Grandpa Newt. It's less to do with Luna's fascination with his work, her quirky personality that makes her harder to read than Latin, or the disparity in their ages, and everything to do with his granddad. In reality, Grandpa Newt is far more likely to say something to her that might go awry.

"When is that Lovegood girl going to pop in?" Grandpa Newt calls out, almost as if he's been keeping time and waiting for her rather than the food. Kicking at invisible dust on the ground, Rolf stuffs his hands into his pocket. A gut feeling rumbles beneath the surface, warning him that he might become the third wheel once Luna meets his grandfather. "Rolf?"

Clearing his throat, "Uhm, she'll be here any minute now, gramps."

Even Rolf wasn't dating her, it is very likely that Grandpa Newt would've learned about her work regardless. Luna is becoming a very well known naturalist, publishing her theories in her father's magazine, and then later garnering funding from private investors who want to see if her theories are true. She's discovered three new families of pixies in locations like Australia and South America, where the magic populations are not quite as large.

That's not the sort of news that a renowned Magizoologist misses. "You say you're going to Romania to study dragons?"

Rolf nods, even though he can't be seen. He nervously moves towards the window to peek through the curtains. He wants to stop Luna before she comes inside to let her know that they'll have extra company. "Interspecies breeding, actually."

"Gran would be upset if I tried to go along, I think," he moans from the kitchen, though loudly enough to make it seem like he's standing right next to Rolf. The anticipation forces the man into a hunch. It is true, he thinks, because Granny Tina has kept his granddad out of the field for a few years now. Obviously it is due to his age, though it isn't uncommon for the famous Newt Scamander to pop around the world to visit magizoologists during their studies. Rolf sucks his lips in and bites down, drops his gaze to the ground, and just listens for the telltale crack of someone apparating.

When he blows his lips back out of his mouth, Rolf confirms what his grandpa is thinking. "Granny would probably chain you to the willow tree."

"Tie who to a willow tree?" a voice says, only seconds after dust kicks out of the fireplace. Rolf gawks at a soot covered Luna Lovegood, blonde hair grayed atop her head in a messy bun, and her bright yellow leggings practically black from her landing. She looks down, almost as if she might be worried about the mess, but then she pulls her gaze back up to Rolf. Her expression suggests that she is still more interested in the answer to her question.

Rolf steps into her, his chest pressed almost to her, and his eyes looking down her upturned nose. The dreamy smile over her lips is tempting, but he has to tell her. "My grandpa is here."

"That's lovely that he came from the states to visit," Luna lulls, scooting away from Rolf effortlessly. Stunned at her lack of awareness, her lack of attention to the seriousness in his features, Rolf follows behind her in slow motion.

"Not quite," Rolf explains in a hushed voice. "I meant my Grandpa _Scamander_ is here."

It doesn't matter that he's said it, though, because Luna already has her eyes trained on her career idol. She always looks to be in awe of the world in front of her, eyes glossy and wide, but there's no way of knowing whether or not she's actually stricken by the people or places she's around. Rolf holds his breath and waits for the exchange between them.

"I do quite love you, Mister Scamander," Luna coos in a confusing sort of way. It sounds equally as kind as it does dismissive. She isn't even looking directly at him when she says it. In fact, she's surveying the food after she's had a good look over him. "Your work is phenomenal, if you didn't know."

This makes Rolf's granddad laugh very heartily. "You must be Miss Lovegood. Pleasure to meet you." Luna accepts his outstretched hand, though her focus doesn't change. She's still checking out the different food items laid out on the counter.

"Yes, uhm, this is my – er – my, uhm, Luna Lovegood," Rolf confirms in stammered grumble. This doesn't really even register in the minds of his grandfather and his girlfriend, but the worry that they won't easily skip over it lingers in his mind. Grandpa Newt tells Luna to make a plate, and she insists that he goes first, and so he does. Rolf goes last, joining them at the table, waiting for whatever gets said next.

But nothing comes up right away, except for compliments on the food and requests for this or that from the kitchen counters. Eventually the need for drinks arises, and Rolf offers to grab them on his own. The quiet is unsettling, and so are his racing thoughts. It shouldn't be this uncomfortable, and he can't really explain to himself why it is such a big deal that this goes well.

As he walks back around the corner to set the glasses down, Luna is shaking her head. "Not exactly."

"I think she might be better at your job than you are, Rolf," Grandpa Newt remarks playfully. Luna grins sympathetically, the only emotions that is ever clear to him when she shows it, and then gestures towards his granddad.

"I've told him that we have the same job, but he's not hearing me," Luna shares. "He thinks you're a magizoologist. What a silly idea."

Rolf was slightly aware that he believed that, but he assumed that his granddad hadn't failed to notice that he wasn't exactly giving his work a name, his job a title. He's never once said that he's a magizoologist exactly. "She's right," he's finally admits aloud to his grandfather. "I'm actually a naturalist as well. We do the same work."

"What's the difference between a naturalist and a zoologist really, anyway?" he asks, a funny look on his face and a baritone curiosity in his voice. It is surprisingly easy, actually, and Rolf leaves his mouth open in surprise. If he'd known it would be as easy as answering what the difference was, Rolf might've stopped tip-toeing the matter years ago.

"There is none, not in the grand scheme of things," says Rolf in a cheerier tone than before, his elbows resting on the table as he contemplates the best way to describe his career. "Really, it's just the camping, isn't it, darling?"

Grandpa Newt's lips curl all the way over his teeth in a wide smile that usually only comes around when his gran talks about how they met, or when she asks to join him in the suitcase. She broke her hip pretty badly many years ago and it makes it difficult for her to get up and down the stairs anymore. Granny Tina only asks when she's absolutely positive that she can handle it.

But his smile right now is precisely the same. "He must love you very much, Miss Lovegood. I've never seen Rolf so nervous, not even when he was a toddler with a Cornish pixie nibbling on his ear."

"Grandpa!"

Luna gawks at him, expressionless. Her head tilts slowly as the comment processes in her fuzzy mind. She's brilliant with magical creatures and understands people very well. The interactions are what she hasn't quite mastered yet, though Rolf knows that he's not better in any significant way. Social expectations are less poignant when he's with family, which is why he limits his company to co-workers and relatives as much as possible.

She closes her eyes for a moment and breathes in. "I had wondered if he might."

Rolf hasn't told Luna how he felt, how tightly she held onto his heart. His thinking was that there would be a perfect moment, a day on the work site where things would fall into line, and he would hold her face in his hands and tell her: _I love you_. This is why he had reservations about her meeting his granddad first.

But, alas, everything is as easy as Grandpa Newt makes it seem. Luna's eyes are sparkling, and his grandfather is smiling, and Rolf's heart is not racing out of his chest. All things considered, this is actually a success.

As it turns out, Grandpa Newt doesn't think any less of naturalists when comparing them to magizoologists. Luna's significant youth in comparison to him is completely ignored. And his love for her is now public knowledge, more or less. Even though this day was not planned, it works out precisely as it must in order for Rolf's life to start moving forward again.

Eventually Grandpa Newt must leave, he has plans to visit a garden with gran, and wishes Luna farewell. He thanks her for her love, but kindly insists that she redirect her feelings to his "very available" grandson instead. Luna actually handles it very well, smiling and winking at him with flawless execution, and then promptly kisses his cheek. When he crackles away, it's just the two of them – staring at one another with pink cheeks and sideways smirks.

This dose of domestic life – it kind of suits him, Rolf thinks. Afternoons could be filled with cleaning and gardening, and their travels can have specific hours for working so that they can have nights in and read books on the couch together. Daydreaming the glimpses of a future he could have with Luna gets his heart fluttering, and his tongue dancing. What a beautiful life it would be…

It makes him wonder why he's not telling the world that she's _his_ girlfriend.

"I do love you, Luna," Rolf declares. "In case that wasn't clear."

She laughs, and it makes him melt in front of her. "I love you more than your grandfather. In case that wasn't clear either."

It is clear, but it feels great to hear it. Rolf takes her into his arms and kisses her gently on the nose. The way the sunlight reflects off of her blonde eyelashes makes him feel at home. It makes him think that home is wherever Luna Lovegood goes, and something uncontrollable rises in his throat at the bliss he feels with her.

"Good, so you'd be alright marrying me, then?" he breathes out in relief. "I bloody love you and I'd marry you today, if you'd have me."

And, even though he's not expecting a reply,

she –

says –

 _yes._


	10. One Last 'I Love You'

There was a time when he thought that falling in love was something meant for other people. Sure, there was that time that he went on a date with Ginny Weasley and danced the night away, but that was years ago and they never did anything together that resembled a date ever again. Besides, after the Yule ball, there wasn't another girl that actually captured Neville's attention.

And he certainly hadn't garnered anyone's interest. He hadn't blamed anyone. Who would ever fall in love with a bumbling idiot who tripped over his words and struggled to make eye contact? That wasn't exactly 'boyfriend' or 'future husband' material.

So it had come as a surprise when Hannah sidled her way up to Neville and offered to buy him a drink on a dreary evening in The Leaky Cauldron. It was unexpected, but, in time, it was precisely what he'd needed at the time. What started off as shared drinks turned into genuine conversation about life after the war, life after Hogwarts, and life – with nobody else in it.

"It's total shite, too, isn't it?" she had complained with those light eyebrows of hers knit together. "I want to tell my parents that I'm going to be running The Leaky Cauldron, but they're not here. I have friends, sure, but nobody to call my own – nobody to celebrate good news with, you know? I'm in this world and I'm just Hannah bloody Abbott."

Neville didn't quite understand exactly, since his parents were still alive in St. Mungo's Hospital. Yet, he did know how her suffering felt to a high degree. His gran had died last winter and he was still struggling to life without her. Like Hannah, he was in the world without a family of his own anymore. Mustering the courage based on this common ground, he made her an offer. "I'll celebrate with you."

Hannah smiled a big grin that opened Neville's heart in a way he couldn't ever find the words to describe it. Their classes clinked loudly, drawing the attention of my any patrons, and the rest quickly became history. From then on, it was Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott against the world.

Their engagement was a whirlwind affair that had them tying the knot soon after that fateful night in The Leaky Cauldron. Set to marry in two days, Neville had decided to make a difficult decision about the baggage he was carrying into his relationship with Hannah. Specifically, he considered what role his parents played in his life. As he stood in front of the glass window watching his parents drink tea together silently, he started to find peace in the choice that he'd made. Coming during this time was intentional. Neville needed to see them like this one last time.

"Are you sure you wish to do this, Mr. Longbottom? What you're suggesting – there's no coming back from that sort of procedure," the woman to his left pestered. Nobody on his parent's treatment team had really liked what he was asking of them. It was understandable, he supposed, since they've seen his parents at their worst. However, they could only ever see them as patients. Neville was no healer. He was no monster. He was simply their son, and he wanted to give them something they deserved – a chance at more than white padded hospital rooms that operated like prison cells.

So he had made it perfectly clear, again, that this was the remedy he'd chosen for his parents. When his gran died, their fate fell onto his shoulders. It was never that he couldn't carry the burden, only that it had become precisely that: _a burden._ Neville did not want to grow old with his wife, resenting his parents for something the did not choose, for something that they did not do to themselves. If there was any chance that he could give them something that was considered impossible, if he had to take the chance to find out if he could give them a better life, then Neville had braved enough darkness to make that choice.

Neville wanted to close this chapter in his life, not out of selfishness, though it could seem that way to an outsider. "I understand the repercussions, but they've been trapped in this ward for twenty years. Don't they deserve to have a go at the rest of their life like everyone else?"

The healer nodded her head, however hesitant she had been previously. Only an hour before, they'd discussed Alice and Frank Longbottom's physical health, which was great, considering all that they'd been through. Despite the fact that they did not recognize visitors that they should've known, including family, they did seem at peace with one another more often than not. On those rare occasions that they were not friendly with one another, they did not breakdown and beginning screaming. They would merely keep their distance when with one another. None of their memories were there to guide them, of course, and so they only interact based upon gut feelings they had about others, about each other. And they could never scream at one another.

"Sometimes they hold hands," the healer whispered. "It cannot be explained by medical magic. Their love must've been quite powerful."

Neville smiled. On rare occasions, his gran would tell stories about his mum and dad dancing in the night under the stars. They did everything together. He hoped day in and day out that he could give Hannah that same kind of blissful love.

"I've made arrangements for them in a cottage along the countryside near a small town in Scotland. If the procedure is successful, I will take them there immediately," Neville reiterated his intentions for the healer next to him, his eyes never leaving the sight of his parents ahead of him. Obliviating his parents may not work, but with great skill, it could be successful enough to get them established in a Muggle life that they can share. They'll never even know what they've lost, which is heartbreaking and calming all at once.

Waiting for a team of healers to get together and formulate an action plan to ensure the highest success rate was nearly unbearable. He'd cancelled his dinner plans with Hannah so that he could have this weight off of his shoulders. It was important to him that he was able to be the best husband to her that he could be, without always pondering how his life might have been if his parents were able to be a proper part of it. It would eventually take too much life from him. He wanted to give that life to Hannah.

The moon had been out for a few hours, but Neville hadn't moved to verify the exact time on a clock because he was frozen in anticipation. It was quite late when the doctor's came out to confirm that his parents were calmer than they'd been for years, and that, when he was ready to sign the paperwork releasing them into his custody, the papers were waiting for him at reception.

Hearing that was jarring, and heartbreaking, really, because he'd never thought this day would come – his parents leaving St. Mungo's Hospital for good. It was painful that they could not leave under better terms, but Neville had been right to take this risk; they would be leaving with far more than with which they had came.

Once at the cottage, the hardest part wasn't closing their bedroom door or kissing his parents' heads good-bye for the last time while they slept. It wasn't the knowledge that he would never see them again and that he had any traces of their love for him as their son erased. No, all of that was easy, because, in the end, it held them back. Neville did not want to be the reason they continued to live in a hospital surrounded by healers just looking to keep them comfortable.

Everything he'd done up until that point had been pretty easy.

Writing a new story for them is what he found to be the hardest part:

* * *

 _Alice and Frank,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well and that you are pleased with your new accommodations. You must be very confused but I want you to remain calm._

 _A murder investigation you were running together went very wrong a few months back and you were rushed to the hospital. You had been severely injured after the perpetrator attacked you. Unfortunately, the damage was already done by the time medics and back up arrived. You have now suffered severe and irreversible amnesia. It is very possible that you'll be reading this and you won't even know with certainty that Alice and Frank are your names._

 _Alice and Frank Abbott, actually._

 _You were brilliant detective inspectors before the incident, but those days are now behind you. I have seen to it that you can spend your life in this cottage comfortably for as long as you need, since you've been forced into early retirement. You should always have everything you need, or the means to get what you need without worry._

 _A caretaker will come to the cottage three times per week. Her name is Gabrielle and she used to be a nurse in France. She is looking forward to helping you get your life established here. Should you ever need anything, it is my promise and guarantee that she will see to whatever you wish._

 _Many people will miss you, but this is the best course of action for your future._

 _I hope that it brings you nothing but joy._

 _Best wishes,_

 _N.L._

* * *

He chose Hannah's last name for them so that they had a part of their daughter-in-law too. They would never know it, but Neville would. He would _always_ know it, and no matter how much it hurt – it helped too.

Even though it was time for him to let go, he and Hannah would always have a connection to them.

"I love you," Neville muttered into the air, tears rolling over his cheeks. It was the last time he was ever going to say it to them. Well, _at_ their home, hoping that his words will fill every crevice and linger for them to hear in their dreams. "I love you so much, mum and dad, and this is the only way I could show it."

Before he changed his mind about everything, Neville set fire to the paper with the address on it and apparated to his flat in Dufftown. He was getting married in eight hours and he needed to be ready to walk down the aisle to his perfect future alongside a woman who, against all odds, chose him – stuttering, muttering, fumbling, and bumbling _him._

Bittersweet as everything was, Neville couldn't have been happier. The idea of marrying the love of his life… Becoming Neville _and_ Hannah Longbottom…

It was going to be worth letting go; he knew it in his heart.

* * *

XXXXX

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _Thank you for reading this short series, your interest in this content means the world to me. In addition to my gratitude, it is my hope that you were pleased with the choices I made regarding these characters. Favorite & review if you wish, otherwise, simply coming to read this was enough. May the best come your way in all future endeavors - and may "I Love You" mean a little bit more than it did before, as you are so loved._


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